Indomitable
by The Pro
Summary: What is the difference of a few words, spoken at a critical moment? Knowing his enemy and his destiny, fourteen year old Harry Potter, Ravenclaw and magical prodigy, fights fate and an indifferent universe as he struggles to survive.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

/~/

_Life's a game but it's not fair,  
I break the rules so I don't care.  
So I keep doin' my own thing,  
Walkin' tall against the rain_

/~/

Emerald green eyes reflected violet fire as shadows danced across the walls. A line of potions upon a table reflected the violet flame as well, the various coloured draughts mixing with the light of torches and cursed fire, bathing the room in a surplus of colour and light.

The ethereal beauty of it all was lost on one Harry James Potter.

'_Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,_

_Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,_

_One among us seven will let you move ahead,_

_Another will transport the drinker back instead…'_

It was a test of logic, of thinking, and common sense. _Something that seems lost on so many of this world_, Harry mused.

Idly blowing a strand of raven hair from his forehead, Harry removed his wand from its position in his left sleeve. Eleven inches, holly and phoenix feather, moved slowly but swiftly in an intricate pattern of movements, before ending with a deft, downward flick.

"_Congelo Flamma_," the Boy-Who-Lived intoned confidently. Much to his displeasure, and growing frustration, there was no change in violet flames.

Glaring down at his wand, as if it was somehow its fault for the charm not working, Harry sighed at the futility of it all. The flame freezing charm, the one he had just cast, was said to do just that, freeze flame. Properly cast, it would leave a distinctive blue glow around a fire, allowing the caster, and whomever they so chose, to travel through the flames unharmed.

A high level charm though it was, Harry was sure that he had cast it correctly, right down to the proper emphasis on the second syllable of "_Con_ge_llo_". He had done it before after all. It was one of those nifty charms he had set about learning during his first year at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. One never knew when it might come in handy.

This was not one of those times.

"If you keep scowling like that, you're going to get premature wrinkles," a snarky voice piped up from his left.

"If you keep talking like that, you're going to end up arse first through that fire, Corner," Harry responded heatedly. Michael Corner, Harry's roommate, was far too sarcastic for an average eleven year old—now twelve, Harry mentally corrected, the boy's birthday had been three weeks ago. Unfortunately, no one had had the good sense to get him some much needed tact as a present.

Corner merely snorted at Harry's response. "And where would you be right now if it weren't for me? Hm?" he paused for dramatic effect, or perhaps actually waiting for an answer, Harry couldn't be sure. "Oh that's right! You'd be fighting your way past that chessboard!"

Harry's scowl deepened at the snarky, yet true, proclamation. Were it not for Michael, he probably would be unconscious beneath some magically enlarged chess piece. Corner, while being worse at chess than Harry, had had the brilliant idea to levitate each other over the board, something not easily done by a lone first year. The dark twelve year old's smugness only increased upon learning that Harry didn't know the spell for levitating people, only objects.

_Not my fault I didn't happen to look in the one book that had _Mobilicorpus _in it_, Harry thought uncharitably.

It was surprising that Corner had known the spell at all, in Harry's opinion; his contemporary usually had his nose buried in a potions text. "Shut it Corner," Harry quipped eloquently. The dark boy merely laughed at the gripe.

Sensing the mood of the situation they were facing, or perhaps his survival instincts finally kicked in, Corner deftly changed topics. "What was that spell you just used? You know...the one that didn't work?"

"Flame freezing charm," Harry said shortly, picking up the smallest flask and inspecting its contents, while tapping it with his wand idly.

Corner whistled quietly, "Isn't that a fifth year charm?" Harry simply grunted in the affirmative. The first year Ravenclaw shook his head in exasperation at his roommate. While it was certainly not uncommon for students to read up on advanced spells, Ravenclaws especially, Harry seemed to take it to a higher level entirely.

Ever since the second month of the school year—the first had been spent reading as much about magical theory as he could get his hands on—Harry had gone on a bit of a learning spree, studying as much or more than most of the upper year 'Claws, and _they_ had exams to study for. It was that obscene amount of studying that had catapulted Harry into the top spot academically for his first year, leaping a disgruntled Hermione Granger in the process.

Sighing once more, Harry held the smallest bottle in his right hand as he moved to grasp the bottle at the far right end of the table. "Got it," he began, "the small one will get one of us through the flames. The other will let us go back the way we came."

His roommate raised an eyebrow, "It took you that long to figure it out? I thought you were good at this stuff?"

"It took me about two minutes to figure it out, arsehole!" Harry yelled heatedly. Starting with the deputy Headmistress' outright refusal to believe Harry when he had brought up the knowledge that _someone_ was trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone, Harry's frustration had only been building as the evening had progressed. She wouldn't even consent to simply _check_ on it, thus leading the two first years to their current predicament.

"I was _hoping_ to find an alternate way through. I was hoping we could both go," he finished.

"Should I be worried that my best mate is so willing to put me in a room with a former Death Eater? Michael asked innocently. "Not to mention how you dragged me through all these other "protections"," he finished while gesturing to the door they had come through.

Harry simply scoffed, they both knew that the second boy was there entirely of his own volition.

"I'm telling you mate, I don't think it's Snape. He's too obvious," Harry stated with a smirk at the resurrection of the nearly yearlong argument. "Slimyness and being a former Death Eater aside."

Corner snorted, "Yeah, right. Just have my ten galleons waiting when you get out of there." Opening his hand, he deftly snatched the larger bottle that Harry had thrown him out of the air. "I'll try to send a message to Dumbledore, whatever business he had at the Ministry should be done by now."

It was never a question who was going through the flames once all the other options had been exhausted. Harry was both more magically talented, and knew more spells than Corner. Michael's forte was potions, while Harry seemed unusually talented for the wanded subjects of Charms and Transfiguration. They hadn't yet gotten to spells in Defence Against the Dark Arts, mainly due to Quirinius Quirrell's perpetual stutter, but Harry was confident that he would be just as competent with that subject as well.

Harry nodded in response. "Get Flitwick too. In retrospect, we probably should have gone straight to him in the first place." The diminutive head of Ravenclaw was a favourite teacher to both, not to mention a former World Champion on the International Duelling Circuit.

"Probably," Corner agreed. Uncorking the flask, the dark boy downed the contents in one go, grimacing in disgust at the taste. "Honestly, I better win the bloody Order of Merlin when I figure out how to make these things taste good." Stepping toward the other purple fire in the room, he turned to regard his shorter roommate. "Good luck, mate," he said. And he was gone at a run.

Harry watched him go; the reality of what he was about to do finally setting in as his last hope of retreat vanished with his best friend.

Uncapping the bottle, Harry gulped down the contents, feeling as if liquid ice had flooded his veins. Tossing the bottle behind him, he barely heard when it smashed into glass fragments.

_I feel like such a Gryffindor_, he thought with a grimace as the violet flames licked his body.

/~/

He supposed that at the very back of his mind, he _had_ believed that Snape had been the culprit as well. It was the only logical explanation for the unrelenting and undiluted surprise that he felt as he gazed at the reflected visage of his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

It may have been the stutter though. It was certainly plausible.

_Looks like I won ten galleons off Corner. Small silver lining though_, he mused with some small, morbid amusement. It vanished rapidly as Quirrell noticed his presence.

"Ah, Potter..." the voice was confident, strong, and bereft of its usual impediment. Harry's guard was up immediately, his wand held loosely in his right hand. "I was beginning to wonder if I would see you here."

"Well, I hate to disappoint," Harry started, cursing the small waver that could be heard through his speech. "Looks like I won ten galleons, Corner thought it would be Snape." He tried to keep the conversation flowing, as every second of it meant that Corner had more time to get help. He didn't delude himself into thinking that he could take on a fully grown wizard; especially one that, he suspected, was trained by Voldemort himself.

Quirrell chuckled heartily, "Yes, he does seem the type doesn't he? I must admit that he deflects suspicion quite well, what with him swooping everywhere like an overgrown bat," here the turbaned man laughed at his own joke; Harry probably would have laughed as well, were it not for the circumstances. "Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-t-uttering, P-Professor Quirrell?"

He cackled again at his own wit and subtlety. Harry silently wondered if all Dark Wizards needed to take time to boast their own feats of superiority. It seemed so clichéd, like Quirrel was one of those cartoon villains that Harry's cousin Dudley used to watch on television.

Finally turning to face him, Quirrell addressed Harry once more, "But not you though. It seems that all the praise you got in all those staff meetings was...somewhat warranted."

Harry raised an eyebrow in what he felt was a questioning manner as Quirrell continued, "But not so smart it seems, what with you being here alone. I must say that I half expected your friend Michael Corner to come in after you. Annoying brat," he added as somewhat of an afterthought.

The last piece of a previously unexplained coincidence clicked into place in Harry's mind. "I take it you were the one who brought those bricks down?" Harry inquired politely, his voice not betraying the anger he felt toward this man.

He was, of course, referring to an incident shortly before the winter holidays. Some hundred pounds worth of castle bricks had broken free over one of the entrances to the school. Had it not been for Corner's quick reflexes, Harry would have likely been crushed. The incident had been written off as a freak accident, as the mortar holding the stones in place had been thinning the whole year. Officially, Harry had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Yes, were it not for that friend of yours, not even Snape's quick wandwork would have saved you." Snape had been at the scene as well, leading to Corner's original suspicion of the man; that, and the man's potent, unexplained hatred of Harry. "It was quite frustrating, I had taken quite some time in preparing those stones as well."

"Yes, I'm sure it was quite the setback for you," Harry couldn't stop the anger from bleeding into his sarcasm.

Quirrell nodded sagely, a sneer adorning his pale visage. _Looks right at home, _Harry felt. "Indeed it was, though pointless, in the end. I'm simply going to kill you tonight."

Harry was already in motion before Quirrell had finished his last word. His wand a blur from countless practice sessions, he incanted, "_Stupefy!_" a red bolt of magic speeding from his wand toward his former Professor.

It was for naught, however, as Quirrell swatted the stunning spell out of the air, much akin to one swatting an insect. Harry had no time to react as the turbaned man snapped his fingers and ropes sprung from nowhere to bind Harry's body from shoulder to knee. Through the haze of pain, rage, and despair, Harry idly noted that Quirrell was quite the showman. His sharp eyes had caught the nearly hidden wand movements as the man had snapped his fingers.

"Unfortunately, for you, you've proven yourself too resourceful to live," Quirrell began once more, utterly unfazed at Harry's attempt to subdue him. Turning to the mirror, he began to murmur under his breath while tapping the frame with his wand.

"Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this," he muttered with something akin to frustration colouring his voice. "Truly obscure. Normal wards and defences are easily subverted, but this..." Regarding the inscription on top of the mirror he read, "The Mirror of Erised. I show not your face but your heart's desire."

Harry gasped quietly in recognition. Memories of his reflection, older, confident, and successful flooded his mind.

'_The mirror shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts._'

"I see myself, presenting the stone to my master. But _where is it?_" the last part was yelled in frustration as Quirrell looked ready to smash the mirror into a million pieces.

Desperate to take Quirrell's attention from the mirror, Harry spoke up once more, "Master? You mean Voldemort I presume?"

His attempt at distraction seemed to work, as Quirrell whipped around furiously, a snarl marring his features. "Do _not_ speak his name!" The ropes binding Harry became even tighter, making it difficult to breath.

"_Quirinius_!" a whisper of a voice spoke from nowhere. "_The stone! You haven't much time!_" As Harry looked frantically for the source of the voice, Quirrell grasped his head in apparent agony.

"Yes master! B-But I don't know how to reach it."

"_Use the boy!_" the voice commanded.

Quirrell whipped around to where Harry was bound, the ropes vanishing with a flick of his wand. Gasping for air, Harry barely heard when Quirrell magically summoned him in front of the mirror. Pushing himself up, Harry regained some semblance of coherence in time to hear Quirrell's command. "Tell me, what do you see?"

The reflection of himself smirked back at him. Clad in a navy button-down and black slacks, the reflection calmly fixed his thin framed glasses, before holding up a cracked stone coloured blood red. Placing it in his trouser pocket, the reflection gave Harry a wink, before he could feel a weight in his right hand pocket.

"Well...what do you see, boy?" Quirrell demanded.

Mind moving a mile a minute, Harry answered on auto-pilot, still trying to process the fact that he most likely held the Philosopher's Stone in his pocket. "I see myself. Older...and taller. I'm wearing an Order of Merlin, First Class. I'm-" the last sentence was cut off as Quirrell shoved him away none too gently.

Drawing himself up, Harry began to shift his way toward where he could see the violet flames that he had entered through. He was about to make a run for it, flames be damned, before the hidden voice spoke up once more, "_He lies!_"

Quirrell's wand was trained on him in an instant, "Get back here, Potter! Tell me what you see!"

"_Let me speak to him...face to face._"

Quirrell's face immediately became focused. "Master, you are not strong enough!"

"_I have strength enough...for this._"

Slowly, with trembling fingers, Quirrell untied his turban, letting the purple cloth fall to the floor. Quirrell turned slowly, so that the back of his bald head faced Harry.

Emerald eyes met blood red, and liquid fire coursed through Harry's lightning bolt scar. "_Harry Potter..._" the voice of the Dark Lord Voldemort hissed.

Harry's legs felt as if they were made of lead, rather than flesh and blood, for all he could move them.

"_You see what I have become? A mere shadow, only able to hold corporal form when I share the body of another. I have sustained myself, with unicorn blood, but that stone in your pocket..._" Harry stepped back at the knowledge that Voldemort knew he held the stone. "..._that stone will allow me to take form once more. Lord Voldemort shall rise again!_"

Harry turned to attempt to escape, but Voldemort snarled, "_Don't be a fool, better to save your own life, and join me_."

"I'll never join you!" Harry bit out furiously. Quirrell was walking backwards, so Voldemort could continue to see Harry.

"_Don't be so sure. Give me the stone Harry, and together, we can resurrect your parents. They were strong people, brave people._" The voice had become oddly soothing, seductive, as the sentence continued, and Harry marvelled at how quickly the Dark Lord could change tactics. Unfortunately, he had picked the wrong avenue.

A snort of derision met Voldemort's words, "You killed my parents! Any chance that I might have joined you, died with them," Harry's voice rang with the rage of an orphan who had been left alone in an unforgiving world, given nothing to support himself with. "They're dead to me. I've never known them and I never will, thanks to you."

Harry's knuckles were turning white as he held his fists clenched, Voldemort had hit a sore spot with the eleven year old wizard-to-be. "They left me with nothing! No money, no home, no guidance. Enough inheritance to see me through school and the foresight to have me dumped with my aunt and uncle! No Voldemort, I don't care about them, but you're the reason for that. Go to hell!"

"_So that's it Harry Potter? You, who have so much talent, would deny a place at the side of the greatest wizard in the world?_" Voldemort changed tactics once more.

Harry, despite the anger and underlying terror that he felt for the shade in front of him, couldn't help scoffing. "Greatest wizard in the world? You said it yourself; you're simply a wraith, a shadow." He shook his head, "Dumbledore is the greatest wizard in the world, not you."

The face protruding from Quirrell's head contorted into a snarl of rage, "_You are naught but Dumbledore's pawn!_"

Just as quickly as rage had overtaken the fallen Dark Lord, it vanished, replaced by an imploring voice, filled with wisdom, "_Don't continue to be his pawn, Harry. You have too much talent, too much potential to let it all go to waste for a man who does not care about you!_"

"Dumbledore's pawn? I'm no more his pawn than I'm yours." A sneer overtook Harry's face, "My parents may have arranged for me to go to my aunt and uncle's, but _he_ put me there. With my _magic hating_ relatives! Ten miserable years can be placed at his feet, and I intend to make him answer for them!"

Harry was breathing heavily now, the spilling of his emotions having tired him mentally. He had to admit though, it was a cathartic exercise. Only Corner had heard even a fraction of his home life, it wasn't something Harry readily spoke of.

"No Voldemort, I'm not his pawn, just like I won't be yours."

The face of the Dark Lord had become oddly contemplative during Harry's rant, "_A pity then. We are similar, you and I, more so than I had thought_. _A pity indeed...SEIZE HIM!_"

Suddenly, Harry felt rather than saw Quirrell leap at him, grasping his right wrist and pulling him to the ground. As soon as the bald man's hand made contact with Harry's flesh, however, a searing, blistering pain made its presence known; to both parties involved.

Harry struggled mightily, writhing and pushing with what little strength he could muster and, surprisingly, Quirrell let him go. As the pain lessened, Harry glanced around frantically, searching for his assailant. He found him, hunched over and gasping in pain with fingers blistering before his very eyes.

"_SEIZE HIM! SEIZE HIM!_" Voldemort screamed.

"Master, my hands! I cannot touch him!" Quirrell gasped, staring in disbelief at his burning flesh.

"_Then use your wand, fool!_ _Kill him and be done with it!_"

Wand nowhere to be found, and with Quirrell's wand glowing green with a deadly curse, Harry did the only thing available to him at the moment, he grabbed Quirrell's face with both hands.

Immediately, the pain returned ten fold. Liquid fire and searing needles threatened to cleave Harry's head in two, but he held fast, knowing that Quirrell was feeling that and worse. He knew his only hope was to keep Quirrell in enough pain to stop him from performing a curse.

"_KILL HIM! KILL HIM!_"

Gasping as the pain was abruptly cut off, Harry only vaguely registered that Quirrell was stumbling backwards, face and hands blistering due to invisible flame. Knowing that he only had a small window of opportunity, Harry scrambled to his dropped wand, idly noting that Quirrell had tumbled to the ground amidst Voldemort's continued shrieks.

Spinning toward the forgotten Mirror of Erised, Harry didn't even notice his reflection giving him a two fingered salute, as he let instinct take over. A swish and flick of holly and phoenix feather later, the mirror that had driven dozens of men to insanity and death was hovering over the collapsed and moaning form of Quirinius Quirrell.

Nary a thought passed through Harry's head as he released his magic, and let the ancient mirror's thick, golden frame, fall heavily on the head of his former Defence Professor. As the glass of the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces upon the body of the possessed man, Harry only felt an odd sense of detachment pass over him.

He only felt relief when the body ceased to move.

Stumbling backwards, Harry felt his body come to a rest on the stone steps before the violet fire. It would be fine if he rested here, it had been a long day after all.

He felt his eyes as they began to close of their own volition, as he looked upon the corpse of his former Professor. As blackness began to seep from the corners of his vision, Harry noticed with horror a grey, smoky spectre rising from the prone form of Quirrell.

As he feebly tried to raise his wand and darkness overcame him, the barest whisper of a voice imprinted itself upon his consciousness.

"_...cling to life..._"

"_...hunt you...find you..._"

"_...will kill you... Harry Potter..._"

/~/

Letters and symbols made of pure fire swirled around the small office, flitting in and out of the vision of the fourteen year old boy who controlled them. Harry Potter murmured under his breath as the suspended symbols passed him. With a wave of his wand, three of the symbols rearranged themselves, two switched places, and another disappeared entirely.

"With the opposite forces acting upon..._that_ point? No, no..." Harry trailed off. Giving his wand an experimental downward twist, he shook his head calmly. "No, the downward corkscrew changes the resultant further toward a more power oriented spell. That eliminates the piercing aspect entirely." He shook his head ruefully, "Might as well make a new bludgeoner."

Turning from the floating symbols of fire, he snatched up a piece of parchment from a nearby desk and began scribbling on it, noting what he had just said.

His musings were interrupted by the sound of a head being withdrawn from water, and he turned to see his Charms Professor pulling his head from a small pensieve. The half gnome had a look of deep concentration on his face; Harry was familiar enough with the man to know he was perturbed.

"What do you think?" asked the fourteen year old Ravenclaw.

The diminutive man raised his eyes to Harry's own and shook his head. "Well it certainly explains some things Mr. Potter," the former Duelling Champion began. "I have to wonder, have your views of your parents changed at all? You don't seem to show the same vehemence about the subject whenever they are brought up these days."

Harry turned away from the professor and, with a sweeping wave of his wand, banished the floating symbols to a piece of parchment. "I've mellowed some I guess," the boy started. "I was an emotional eleven year old who had just found out that his parents had left him next to nothing," he wove his wand in an intricate pattern and the parchment folded in on itself, before twisting into a white bird and flying out an open window. 

Turning back to his professor, he continued, "It didn't help that I had read books that described the wealthy lifestyle generations of Potters lived."

Flitwick nodded, "It is hard to believe. The entire Potter fortune, squandered!" He shook his head in what appeared to be disbelief. "To think that the fortune could be spent so easily..."

"They were almost single-handedly financing Dumbledore's war effort, it was bound to happen," Harry stated matter-of-factly. "The Potters never were as wealthy as some of the other old families, and financing war is expensive business."

"You seem remarkably calm about this."

Harry shrugged. "I've had three years to think it over. Frankly, I was adjusted to it by the start of second year. I never had money before, nothing had really changed."

Flitwick nodded sagely, inwardly impressed with the maturity his student was showing, had already showed. "Yes I suppose it wouldn't be much different." Deftly changing topics, he began anew, "What of Albus? You anger toward him hasn't dimmed much over the years."

"It has. I'll have to go with the emotional kid excuse again." Here Flitwick shared a small laugh with his protégé. "Despite everything, I was safer there than anywhere else. Dumbledore's wards managed to stop two assassination attempts before I was three years old."

The Charms Professor raised a bushy white eyebrow, "And how, pray tell, were you able to come across that information? Certainly _Albus_ didn't tell you."

Harry sent his teacher a conspirator's wink, "Corner's dad is the Head of the Department of Magical Finance at the Ministry. Michael asked him a favour and he asked a few favours of his own. The attempts were apparently made by privately hired Hit-Wizards."

"Any ideas as to _who_ exactly hired them?" Flitwick asked, ignoring his fourteen year old student's Ministerial connections.

Harry shook his head, "Only speculation. Whoever made the hires kept themselves in the clear."

"So you agree with the decision to place you there?" Flitwick asked curiously.

Harry shrugged again, "Kind of have to, I suppose. My childhood still sucked, but I guess it's better than being dead, right?"

"Indeed," Flitwick said with a smile. "Back to the confrontation you had, that last bit wasn't just a figment of your imagination was it?"

Harry's face clouded as he remembered the words that had been the driving force behind his obsessive thirst for knowledge for over two years. "No. I've dreamed of it too much to make them anything less than real."

The half gnome nodded gravely, "Yes, I suppose you're right Harry. That would explain some of your more obsessive tendencies." He chortled here, as if indulging in a private joke. At Harry's raised eyebrow, he continued "It certainly explains why you seem much more motivated than everyone, even Miss. Granger."

Harry simply rolled his eyes at the mention of the bushy haired Gryffindor. The girl seemed to hate Harry simply because he did better than her in all of their subjects. _Though_, he silently amended, _it probably has more to do with the fact that I make it look easy_.

He had made a small habit of patronizing her whenever he could; it was his small form of payback for the girl being an "insufferable know-it-all", as Snape so eloquently put it. The girl was certainly intelligent, Harry had to admit that, but it was the way she displayed it that pissed off so many people, Ravenclaws especially.

Being intelligent was all well and good, but one didn't have to show it off at every possible opportunity, like Granger did. She was smart, she knew it, and she flaunted it everywhere. It was especially annoying how she merely seemed to recite passages from textbooks. The part that pissed off so many of the Raveclaws, however, was that many of the teachers seemed to indulge the girl, simply by calling on her rather than other students who knew the answer. McGonagall was especially guilty of this, for all her lofty ideals and platitudes of fairness, though Flitwick did much the same from time to time.

"Yes, the girl seems constantly beside herself with how she can't catch up to me," Harry laughed.

Flitwick allowed himself a chuckle with his student, before admonishing him lightly, "You shouldn't antagonize her too much Harry. She is quite intelligent, you know."

Harry merely waved him off, "Yes I know, but she's simply too damn easy to annoy. She's got it coming to her anyway."

Flitwick sighed; Harry's opinion of the girl wouldn't change, no matter how he tried to get it to. He was trying to get his student to branch out, to make contact with other similarly intelligent students in Hogwarts; it could only help him after all. Time after time he merely brushed him off, claiming that he had all he needed in his head, and in Ravenclaw.

If there was one failing of his student, it was his arrogance toward others his age. _Though, I suppose that he has _some_ right_. Harry was the most talented student of his year, by far, and probably even of the school right now. The fourth year had a remarkable grasp of magic, in almost all its forms, and could control it with nary a thought and a flick of his wand.

He, like so many others, had been caught comparing him to his mother, Lily. She herself had had a great talent for most magics, but Filius had to admit that Harry surpassed even her. In truth, Harry reminded him of a student who had been a year below him when he was passing through Hogwarts.  
The similarities between the two were startling, they even looked somewhat alike. Filius merely hoped that the lure of Dark Magic didn't cause Harry to fall the same way Tom Riddle had.

"Well that's enough about Miss. Granger I believe. I must say, this situation with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named even explains part of why you came to me last year." 

Harry nodded at the hidden question. "It did influence my decision. I had been thinking about asking for your help during second year, but I thought I could handle the whole thing on my own. The situation with my godfather hurried the process along though."

Harry neglected to mention his confrontation with a teenage Tom Riddle. The former Hogwarts duelling champion turned Dark Lord had toyed with Harry, demonstrating his superior skill and knowledge by stringing Harry along until he decided to call his pet. Harry's comprehensive defeat at the hands of Riddle, combined with the amount of skill Harry knew that the former Head Boy had to have had to transplant his essence in a diary of all things, had led Harry to the approachable Charms master.

The former Duelling Champion raised his head at the situation that had led to Harry's position as his full time student. Harry had come to his the year before to ask for private tutoring, duelling instruction specifically. While Flitwick normally balked at the idea of teaching the intricacies of duelling to a third year student, Harry was both extremely talented and his  
circumstances far from ordinary.

"How is Mr. Black these days?" the little man inquired. It was initially difficult to wrap his mind around the fact that a man he had thought guilty of assisting in the murder of two of his former students was truly innocent, but he was adjusting.

"Good, as far as I know. He's rehabbing at a property off the coast of Greece. He sent me a battle magic text a few weeks back, I've been itching to try out a few of the spells in it," Harry said eagerly.

Filius laughed at his student's childlike enthusiasm; Harry was only happy learning new spells, or creating them as Filius was beginning to suspect. The arithmetical equation he had seen floating around the room had tipped him off. "Well, shall we begin then?"

"Most definitely!"

"What shall I be limited to today?" Flitwick asked. While the first of their lessons had revolved around teaching Harry proper form and basic techniques known to all duellers, they had evolved into mock duels toward the end of the previous year. While Filius was forced to limit himself to single branches of magic in order to level the playing field, it was a testament to Harry's growing skill that he often challenged the Charms master; so much so that Filius was close to not limiting himself anymore.

Harry pondered the question carefully, knowing that he would most likely have to adjust his style according to what his teacher was limited to. "Transfiguration," he finally decided.

Flitwick nodded in compliance before asking, "Shielding is allowed, of course?"

A smirk and nod meet his inquiry, "But of course; it wouldn't be fair otherwise." In the first duels between the two, Flitwick hadn't been allowed to shield himself, relying on his agility and mobility to avoid Harry's spells.

"Good, good. Shall we then?" the diminutive man asked, gesturing to a side door that Harry knew led to a small, regulation duelling pit.  
_  
This will be fun_, Harry thought eagerly as he stepped through the door.

/~/  
_  
This blows!_ Harry thought angrily as he was forced to dive out of the way of Flitwick's transfigured claw. It was only the third time Flitwick had been able to break through Harry's defences, but the midget of a man certainly made the most of it.  
_  
Whoever says he was a one dimensional dueller can eat shit!_

Hastily regaining his footing, Harry hurled a concentrated bludgeoner at the stone claw, snarling in satisfaction when it dropped to the ground, the bottom half blown off. Spinning quickly, he conjured a slab of granite to block Flitwick's next attack, a set of ten darts hurled at high velocity. The earthen material caught most of them, but Harry wasn't able to get out of the way in time before one embedded itself in his shoulder.  
_  
Shit, knowing him it's poisoned!_ Harry may not have been a true duelling expert, but he knew his teacher well enough to know that he was as crafty as they come.

Pulling the dart out, he crushed it beneath his boot, before mentally incanting, _Incendia Flagellum!_ Using the newly conjured fire whip, Harry swatted three hawks out of the air. Bringing the whip around to bear, Harry barely had time to duck the conjured metal disks that were flying well concealed behind the birds.

'_Every duellist's spell has meaning; no spell of a true duellist is ever wasted or pointless._'

The age old duelling adage flitted through Harry's mind at the speed of thought before being discarded in the flurry of activity.

Snapping his wand up, Harry whipped off a chain of spells, taking advantage of a momentary lull in his teacher's casting. A piercer, a bludgeoner, a cutter and a heavy bone-breaker sped toward the minute Charms Master. It was a chain of spells designed to flow into each other by virtue of the final wand movement of each spell. The final movement of the first flowed into the first movement of the second, and so on. It was an invaluable technique that Flitwick had taught Harry, one designed, in part, by the diminutive man.

The offensive chain battered Flitwick's mage shield, but the dome of energy held fast. Harry wasn't dismayed, the time lapse allowed him to do some nifty transfiguration of his own.

Finishing with a deft flick of his wand, a conjured wolf scampered down the platform toward Flitwick. Hastily trying to split the Duelling Champion's attention, Harry sent another chain the man's way. He noted, with growing concern that his arms seemed to be becoming heavier with each spell he cast; most likely a side effect of whatever Flitwick had coated his darts in.

The short man was not one to be caught off guard by his student, however, and transfigured the wood of the duelling platform into a claw which roughly grabbed Harry's conjured wolf and tossed it from the platform. Simultaneously, the man swiftly ducked Harry's spell chain and banished his transfigured claw down the platform.

A blasting curse met it halfway, and Harry sent a few conjured metal disks of his own, before summoning a trio of vipers.

"_Get him_," he hissed in Parsletongue, and banished them down the platform. His strategy was to keep the small man occupied, as he would need a few extra seconds to cast his next spell. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Flitwick had conjured a wall of flame to combat the summoned snakes. _All the better_.

Slowly, but cleanly, Harry wove his wand in an intricate pattern ending with a clockwise twist of the wrist, as he verbally incanted, "_Everbero!_" A bang not unlike a muggle shotgun went off, and a pure white beam nicknamed God's Fist sped toward Flitwick.

Dropping his wall of fire, Filius sensed, rather than saw, the high octane bludgeoning spell coming his way, and wove his wand while spinning hurriedly. A fountain of pure gold magical energy spilled from the short man's wand, coalescing into a chequered shield of pure magic which absorbed the _Everbero_ spell like a punching bag; a pure white spot upon the shield's surface the only evidence of the spell ever hitting it.

Harry, having never seen nor heard of a shield like Flitwick's, sent a few experimental stunners to test the waters. To his dismay, the stunners were also simply absorbed by the shield.

Harry watched with growing fascination, horror, and dawning comprehension as the light from the individual spells combined in one, single white square of magic.

His eyes widened comically as he watched his mentor give his wand a single, downward wave, and the shield collapsed outwards, sending his very spells back at him.

He brought his wand up hastily to summon a mage shield, but the incantation never made it past his lips before his spells hit him head on, knocking him into unconsciousness.

/~/

"What shield did you use at the end?" Harry inquired after he was woken up. He was propped up in a chair holding an ice pack to his head. The superficial cuts and bruises that he had accumulated had been graciously healed by Flitwick, and Harry had listened to the man pick apart his numerous faults piece by piece for a quarter of an hour.

His nonverbal casting was still weaker than his verbal, he focused on blatantly offensive magic too much, ignoring the more subtle options, and his shielding wasn't adequate. Apparently, while his wand movements were generally good, they got blurred and slurred as the tempo of the duel increased, causing some extra magic to bleed off into the atmosphere, rather than stay with the spell. He also had to move his body more, rather than simply shielding everything.

"The mirror shield, _speculum contengo_. A high level shield that absorbs and reflects all spells cast at it. The level of spell it can absorb, of course, depends largely on the skill of the caster," Flitwick lectured patiently, as Harry made note of it on a piece of parchment.

"Don't other shields reflect spells too?" Harry asked curiously. Various _contengo_ shields he had cast over the years had succeeded in sending offending spells back at his assailants.

"Yes, but those rely on timing more than anything else. Certain properties of the _Contengo_ shield will allow it to send a spell back, but only if it is formed at the precise moment. It is not something to rely on," the Duelling Champion finished.

Harry nodded in acceptance of the point; it was something he would look into. Mastering, or creating as the case may prove to be, a shield that would always reflect a spell back upon its caster would be an invaluable asset.

"Is that all for today professor?"

Flitwick nodded while giving his protégé a smile. "I should think so Harry. Until next Monday then?"

Harry nodded with a small smile upon his face, while these sessions had developed out of necessity, first because of the threat of the innocent Sirius Black, and now to someday combat Voldemort and his followers, Harry had grown to enjoy the company of the Charms Master; not to mention he was a fantastic teacher when passionate about a subject.

"Yes, sir." Glancing at his watch, he whistled at the amount of time that had passed. "I've to run professor, Michael and I are writing our potions essays tonight."

"Good night, Harry. And don't forget about the foreign students arriving tomorrow night."

Harry smirked, while placing his wand in his wrist holster. "How could I forget? Good night, sir."

"Run along, Harry."

Nodding, Harry opened the door to the hallway and stepped through the privacy enchantments, striding toward Ravenclaw Tower.

The smile on the face of the diminutive Charms Professor faded as he turned to the empty room. "Well?" he asked a spot on the wall that looked vacant of any object. "How long have you been there?"

The air shimmered and seemed to fold in on itself, a silver sheen becoming visible before disappearing to reveal the form of Albus Dumbledore, clad in midnight-blue robes with yellow stars. His white beard was tucked into the belt he wore around his waist. Deep blue eyes peered out from behind his half-moon spectacles, their keenness betraying the sharp intelligence of the ancient wizard.

"He's quite competent. You've done well, Filius," Dumbledore spoke kindly. At Flitwick's still questioning look, he elaborated, "I had Armando inform me when you retreated to your separate chamber."

A gesture alerted Flitwick to the frame of Armando Dippet. The former headmaster had served as the Charms professor for nearly two decades before he was chosen to head the establishment. His frame hung among the many frames of the former Charms professors that littered Flitwick's office walls.

Flitwick nodded in thanks, moving to a hidden cabinet in the office and pulling out a large bottle that read "Rosemerta's Finest Mead". "I thank you Albus, but it's more the result of his talent than my teaching. I'll have to stop limiting myself soon; he came far too close to victory today for my liking." While he would not admit it to his student, the mirror shield he had cast at the end had depleted much of the small man's magical reserves. "Had he dodged those reflected spells, he would have won, most likely."

"Yes, the boy is quite talented, but you underestimate yourself Filius. Thank you," he said, accepting a glass of mead from the professor. "I've long been of the opinion that you could teach our Defence Against the Dark Arts post, and quite a bit better than almost everyone I've hired in recent memory," the ancient man complimented with a twinkle in his eyes and an amused tone in his voice.

"Yes, perhaps," Flitwick coughed to hide the small blush he was sporting at the compliments to his ability. "But you know my feelings on the matter Albus. I want as little part of that branch of magic as possible these days."

The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes dimmed somewhat in acceptance of the point. Filius had had a long and successful career in duelling, but it had ended on a sombre note, and the half-gnome had made a promise to stay away from the sport. He only taught Harry out of extenuating circumstances.

"Yes, I know. On to more pressing matters, I'll need to ask you to referee the duels in the upcoming tournament. I know of your distaste for much of the sport these days, but you have the most experience in the matter."

Flitwick nodded in acceptance, though reluctantly. "Yes, I suppose I do. It might take some time away from tutoring Harry though."

Dumbledore chuckled, "I doubt the boy will suffer too greatly. There are only two rounds of duelling in the tournament, and he is quite resourceful, he will find some way to occupy himself if it does take some of your time."  
Finishing his mead, he continued, "I confess, I have been entertaining thoughts of talking to Harry about a full time apprenticeship." He ignored Flitwick's shocked look. "After this year, of course. There is simply too much to do right now."

"B-But Albus, a _full_ apprenticeship?" Flitwick sputtered. "You've never taken an apprentice before!"

Albus chuckled, but there was little humour in it. "Yes, I feel the time is right. Tom is beginning to move. I fear he will soon have a body once more." He nodded at Filius' shocked expression. "Yes, my friend. Harry will need to be prepared. Natural talent notwithstanding, Lord Voldemort has over five decades worth of magical knowledge over Harry, he will need all the help he can get."

Turning his now sharp eyes to Flitwick, he asked, "May I be assured of your services this time around Filius? You know that I believe we could have used a wizard of your calibre in the last war."

Filius turned his eyes downward, before draining the last of his mead. "Yes, I suppose you shall, but only for Harry's sake. I've worked with the boy too much to simply let it go to waste," he stated with a nod, firm in his resolve.  
Abruptly, the twinkle returned to Dumbledore's eyes. "Excellent! In that case, I must ask you a favour," he finished almost gleefully.

Flitwick blanched, he should have suspected something like this. "Well, what is it then?" he asked in resignation.

He knew something was wrong when Dumbledore's eyes hardened immediately. "I am of the opinion that we have an imposter in our midst, Filius." He nodded at the wide eyed expression on the face of his Charms Professor. "Yes, I suspect that someone is impersonating Alastor."

"_Alastor!_" Flitwick bit out incredulously. "Surely not! What could possibly lead you to believe that?"

"When one has been good friends with someone for over four decades, there are subtle tells, Filius. That combined with the disturbance that happened on the morning of the First of September. It is simply too convenient."

Flitwick nodded in acceptance of the logic, if anyone were to pick up on anything wrong with Alastor Moody, it was Dumbledore. "I'll keep an eye on him."

Dumbledore nodded with a smile of thanks. "Thank you Filius. I fear that I will be too preoccupied with the Tournament this year, to properly handle everything. Your help will be greatly appreciated."

"Yes, yes. Of course Albus," Flitwick said somewhat sarcastically. It was well known that Albus Dumbledore knew most everything that happened inside Hogwarts. He was more than capable of keeping tabs on everything and everyone; he simply didn't like to have to. "If you don't mind, I have some third year essays to grade. I've had quite enough of both you and Harry tonight."

Dumbledore chortled at the casual dismissal, "But of course Filius, I shan't keep you from your work any longer." Walking to the door, he turned back once more before leaving, "Clue young Harry in on the Alastor situation will you? I'd like to see how he handles it."

Flitwick was too tired to combat the subtle manipulations Albus decided to put Harry through, and merely nodded. "Of course Albus. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Filius."

Sitting atop a pile of textbooks at his desk, Flitwick casually pulled a stack of third year papers toward him. This was the easy stuff.

Sorting through the piles, he decided to start with the Gryffindors. Taking the first essay from the pile, he read the name and winced.  
_  
Colin Creevey. I'll need some more mead._

/~/

**Author's note: Well, a new story. This one has been sitting in my head for some time now, and I finally decided to put it on paper. I've managed to find inspiration in the Harry Potter fandom, as my inspiration for Naruto wanes with the decline of the manga. Hopefully that will pick up once more and I can find my Naruto muse.**

**Thanks to the crew over at Dark Lord Potter, without them, this chapter would be significantly worse, at least in my mind.**

**Cheers,**

**Sage**


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